


Falling, Flying, Falling

by audreyoctopus



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25234522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyoctopus/pseuds/audreyoctopus
Summary: Some went peacefully, some went painfully, and some never really went at all.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 28





	1. Clove: Falling, Flying, Falling

Clove’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, and she wanted so badly to close her eyes. She was cold, so cold, and she watched the boy from Eleven as he fled, leaving her alone in the wet grass. Clove’s eyelids flickered, and she fought to keep them open – she had never felt more tired in her life. _Just wait Clove,_ she told herself sternly, _just wait till Cato gets here._

She could hear him now, his heavy feet pounding on the dewy grass. “Clove,” he said, dropping to his knees, touching her face. “Clove, it’ll be okay. Enobaria will send something, Brutus will send something, just hold on, just hold on, Clove, please just hold on.”

Clove smiled at him, the pain in her head almost blinding. She fought it with all her might. “Cato,” she said. 

“Clove,” he replied, and kissed her forehead gently. She smiled at him again, her eyes searching, searching, searching his face, counting the freckles and the scars, the pimples and the stubble.

“You… go home,” she told him. _Don’t be sappy,_ she could almost hear Enobaria saying. _Don’t let them know there’s anything else but the ability to kill. You are ruthless._ Clove decided that she didn’t care. She had spent too long, far too long, learning how to kill. She had never learnt how to love, until she met Cato, and she thought that was ironic - she had gone into the arena to kill, and had instead fallen in love. "Go home," she repeated, her eyelids flickering. 

Cato’s breath hitched, and she could see in his eyes that he knew – he _knew._ “I will.” He clasped her hands like they were the only thing keeping him from collapsing - he clasped her hands like they were the difference between life and death.

“Get him for me,” she told him, and she knew he would. The pain in her head was fading now… there was a nice hum to things, similar to when she had been stung by the Tracker-Jackers but without any of the fear… or pain… Clove didn’t remember what pain felt like.

Cato’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll make him pay for it,” he said, his voice a low growl, the water in his eyes spilling over, and leaving trails down his cheeks. “I’ll get him.”

Clove ran her fingers through the wet grass, wondering why on earth she hadn’t spent more time staring at the sky. It was so blue she could imagine herself falling, falling, falling into it, through the clouds and past the moon and into the universe and whatever laid beyond it. Cato stared down at her, and she stared up at him - he was so beautiful. She should tell him...

“I… love…” Clove said, and then she was falling, flying, falling into the blue. She dimly registered the sound of a cannon, far, far, far, away, but she didn’t have the time to worry about it. She had the universe to explore.


	2. Haymitch: A Dead Man Living

Haymitch Abernathy was a dead man. A dead man whose heart still beat.

The first time he knew he was dead was when he was greeted back to his home by an empty train station. The faces of the crowd said more than their words did, and he fell to his knees, his hands reaching out for the family that wasn’t there.

The second time he knew was his fifth year mentoring. The girl had died in the Bloodbath. The boy had died later, in the final eight. They were the ninth and tenth kids he’d failed to help, and he knew then that it would never get easier, he knew then that he was helpless to be of any help at all.

But sometimes, despite himself, he did feel alive. Sometimes he could breathe - sometimes he remembered what it was like, to have a beating heart.

“You are not a failure, Haymitch Abernathy,” Effie had told him sternly one day, when he was drowning himself in alcohol and tears and his own cruel words, after both his kids had died horrifically in the Bloodbath. “You are not. You just haven’t won yet.” She had hope in him, at least. She went in, every year, hoping and believing in his ability to get a kid out, at least one kid out. She had more hope than the parents did, than his fellow mentors did.

And when he finally did help someone – not just one, when he had helped _two_ someones, she had been there, beaming with him. “I told you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “I told you it would happen, one day. I told you that you could do it.”

“Yes,” he’d replied, taking her hand. “Yes, you did.” And then his arms were around her waist and he was spinning her around the room and she was laughing, yelling, crying with him. It wasn't over yet, he knew that. But for now - for now he was alive, and his kids were alive, and Effie was alive. What more did he need, really?

He was a dead man, yes. But he wasn’t buried yet.


	3. Rosemary: Did You Know?

They used to call me Bloody Mary, did you know? I used to be special once. When I got out of the arena, when I was covered in blood and dirt and rage, you know?

This was way back in the late thirties, of course, before Everdeen’s time, before Haymitch’s time, even. Before me, the only _really_ interesting Victors were Beetee Latier, who won the year before I did, Marcellus Spiteri from 2, and sweet little Bobbie Boags from 8 – the rest were mostly your run of the mill, batshit insane, alcoholic cry-babies. But we four stood out – for a while we were hard to forget.

Old Marcellus used to say to me, “Rosemary, any man should rue the day they met you,” and he was right. I killed nine people in the arena, and a tenth when I got back to 5 – and I can tell you for certain that dumb old Silas for sure regretted ever crossing me. For a moment, anyway, before I tore his throat out, of course, before he choked to death on his own blood, you know? This was way back when I still had power over those fools in my District, way back when I was moderately influential in the Capitol – they called me Bloody Mary, you know, because when they got me out of the arena I was covered in the blood of the boy from District 1. Old Garnet couldn’t look at me after that – not that I minded. He was unusually ugly for someone from 1.

I used to be really fit, you know. My old Pa taught me how to dance when I was young, before I was reaped. I added a sword to that in training and I was good to go, not that they knew it, of course. I took down two at the Bloodbath – one of them was a Career. They didn’t see it coming, I can tell you that for sure. The others followed, slowly but surely – I was magnificent. I hunted them down like I was a shark and they were silly little fishies, and I got em’ one by one – they shouldn’t have underestimated me, that’s for sure.

That bitch from 7, Johanna Mason, she stole my strategy, she did. Changed it a bit, of course, she acted like she was completely useless – no subtlety with that girl, not a bit. Me, on the other hand, I was smooth, I was believable. That’s why they were all so shocked when those heads went flying through the air at the Cornucopia – that was me, you know. Two swipes of my sword, two Cannons, easy as pie. The boy from 4 had been so cocky at training, but he wasn’t so cocky anymore. The poor little girl from 9 just got in the way, but that was her fault, of course, she should have been more careful, you know?

I have my sword with me now, but I’m not as fit as I used to be. I didn’t think I’d ever be put back in the arena, you see, so I didn’t bother practicing. Not that it would do me much good now, anyway – I don’t think my sword will help me kill this big wave, you see, I know water well enough to know that nothing will kill it except time and heat, and I have neither of those things, just my old sword, you know?

I was going to do what I had done back in the thirties, that is, pick em’ all off before they knew what had hit em’. I was going to get that bitch from 7 first – you know, a couple of years ago she had the audacity to call me “a washed out piece of shit who wouldn’t know a survival tactic if it hit her in the face”. I didn’t say anything then, of course, I was biding my time. It’s not as though she can talk, though, last year both of her tributes died not ten minutes in; but my girl, my Finch, well, she made it to the last eight. She was doing well, too, until that stupid little baker’s boy got her with the berries.

Although, part of that was my Finch’s fault. I told her, you know, I told her “don’t you let your guard down for a second, it could kill you” and she nodded, of course she did, I know my stuff. You know, back in 5 they said it was suicide. She was so smart – she never forgot anything, ever. Never! I suppose it could have been suicide. She would have known, my Finch, she would have known that Cato boy would have torn her apart.

But none of that matters now. Did you know that water sounds like a mutt when there’s a lot of it? Because it does, it roars and it screams, it says ‘I’m gonna kill you, hey you, I’m gonna kill you’ and then it does. It pulls you under and slams you around, and you never ever see the sun again.

I lost my sword a while ago, not that it would have done me much good to hold onto it.

They used to call me Bloody Mary, did you know?

I lost my breath a while before I lost my sword. I took swimming lessons after the sixties – it was big in the Capitol, you know, swimming was, after the Odair boy won. Even more so after the crazy little Cresta girl – everyone was learning how to swim after her. I laughed at them, you know – when would a Capitolite ever need to swim? Although, I suppose at the time I didn’t really need to know either. I never thought I’d be kicked back into the arena.

But here we are. You know how I said before, that the water takes you and you never ever see the sun again? Well, I was wrong about that, really wrong, because now it’s all I can see, big and bright in front of my eyes, right in the centre of my vision, you know. It’s funny, though, because my eyes are closed – who knows what’s in this water? I don’t want to get dirt in my eyes, you know.

They used to call me Bloody Mary, did you know? Right after I became a Victor. Those same people are probably watching me right now. They're lying bastards, did you know, they loved me for a while and then sent me to die again, you know?

I can’t remember what it’s like to breathe. Someone I knew once thought that drowning would be a peaceful way to go, did you know? It’s not. There is a burning in my chest that won’t go away. It feels like it’s been there forever, but it hasn’t been that long, I don’t think – the arena’s a clock, did you know? I picked the wrong time, I think, right place, wrong time.

I’m going to die soon, did you know? I’ve been under this water for a while now, too long. I have kicked it and punched it and screamed at it but it hasn’t done me much good, not that I thought it would, but I had to do something, you know?

They used to call me Bloody Mary, did you know? But now all the blood has been washed away and I’m just plain old boring little Mary.

Did you know?


	4. Gloss: Split Second

As Gloss held his sister's hand at the Reaping, he knew he wouldn't set eyes on his district again. If he was meant to live, he wouldn't have been reaped - Snow sent him back into the arena for a reason. He knew Cash wouldn't get out either - but he could hope - he could try.

He had always imagined dying in a soft bed, surrounded by family, with his wife on one side and his children on the other. He had imagined a long life, a happy one, a life where he would eventually forget what he had done in the arena. He deserved it, after all - he had sacrificed everything to get to where he was.

He didn't want to kill anyone in the Quell - they were his friends, after all. But he knew from experience, that if he didn't play along, he would pay - he would pay dearly. So slitting Wiress' throat didn't take much thought - it was just another task that had to be done, just another obstacle in the way of Cash getting home. 

He hadn't planned on dying so soon, but he knew it wasn't Everdeen's fault - she had people too, after all, people she loved just like he did. 

It was unfair. He had lost his life, playing these Games - not just the living, breathing life, but the life he craved so dearly.

And in the split second before Gloss drowned in his own blood, he was angry.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He wasn’t supposed to die like this.


	5. Thresh: Not for Nothing

Thresh had fought long, and Thresh had fought hard. Hard enough that Cato was limping from the deep cut Thresh had put in his leg. Hard enough that Cato was bleeding, from the cuts Thresh had put on his body. Hard enough that Cato knew by now that Thresh was fighting for more than just survival – he was fighting out of _rage._ He was fighting for little Rue, for his Nana, for Ivy, for his poor dead parents.

He didn’t know if the rage was misdirected or not. Should he be screaming at the sky, at the Capitol, instead? No. That would only get his family in trouble.

“Give up, Eleven,” Cato snarled, and Thresh looked into the monstrous boy’s eyes and knew that Cato was fighting for someone, too. But who? Thresh didn’t think he would ever know.

Thresh didn’t reply with words. He swung his sickle sword at Cato’s dominant arm, hoping to cut it off - Cato grunted, only barely blocking it. Which was good, thought Thresh. It meant he was tired – but so was Thresh. So, so tired.

“You killed Clove,” Cato said to him, taking another swing. Ah – so that was who he was fighting for. Thresh didn’t think that Cato had it in his heart to fight for someone, but apparently he did.

“Clove killed Rue,” Thresh replied, lunging forwards – Cato dodged.

The boy from Two shook his head, swinging desperately at Thresh’s head, but Thresh was tall enough that the sword didn’t even come close.

“That was Marvel. You killed her for nothing,” Cato said.

Thresh had thought that it was Clove. Her taunts to Fire Girl had sounded real – but maybe he shouldn’t have believed them so quickly. It didn’t really matter anyway, he decided. “Not for nothing,” he said. “Now I’m closer to home.”

And for a moment there, he really believed that he was. A small smile played on his lips – the first smile for weeks and weeks. He shouldn’t have believe it so quickly, though, because Cato wanted to go home too. _I’m nearly home,_ he thought, maybe saying it out loud – he didn’t know.

“No you’re not,” said Cato, and plunged his sword deep into Thresh’s stomach before he had time to react. “For Clove.” _For Rue._

Thresh stared up at him, falling to his knees, and realised he had been wrong all along. Cato wasn’t a monster. He wanted to go home, just like Thresh did. He loved people, just like Thresh did. And despite everything, Thresh found himself respecting the boy from Two. He wasn’t fighting for himself – he wasn’t fighting for the Capitol, even though he had volunteered. He was fighting for someone he loved, and Thresh had to respect that – how could he not?

The pain in his abdomen was all-consuming, but Thresh bit his tongue – he wouldn’t scream. Not when the Capitol wanted him to. Not when Nana and Ivy were watching, crying. Not when it was the only thing he could still control.

“Bye, Two,” Thresh said, only barely getting the words out, staring up at Cato.

Cato stared back, his face still and unreadable. “Bye, Eleven.”

Cato disappeared into the night, into the field, and Thresh clenched his teeth, trying not to cry out. It was darker now, anyway, and the pain was fading. He wouldn’t have to be here much longer, and Thresh was glad that he would finally be out of the arena, even if it was in a wooden box.

Thresh wondered why Cato didn’t wait to see him die. Surely he’d want to make sure the job was definitely done? Thresh’s hands wandered to his stomach, and when he held them up to his face, the blood that dripped from them looked almost black in the moonlight. Cato was just as tired as he was, Thresh realised. The killing had become a chore. He wanted out. He didn’t need to watch Thresh die.

Thresh’s breathing was laboured, and it was getting harder and harder to exhale. It felt as though there was a huge weight on his chest, something pressing down on his ribs.

 _Sorry, Nana. Sorry, Ivy,_ he thought, seeing their faces swim in front of him, looking as though they were really there. He saw his parents, too, clearer than they were in his memories – he had forgotten their faces. Thresh felt almost nothing, now. He was warm, surprisingly so – warmer than he’d been since he’d left the hovercraft. He remembered the sweet smell of the orchards, the warm sun on his face, the soft grass on his feet. He remembered his sister’s laugh, and his Nana’s humming, and the singing of the mockingjays, perched on branches high.

Thresh wondered how Rue had felt, while she died. Fire Girl was with her, at least, singing. Thresh remembered Rue’s sweet voice, floating down from the tallest trees in the orchards, meeting the ears of those of them who worked on the ground. He hoped she was happy, wherever she was, and he hoped that Fire Girl knew how glad he was that she was with Rue, in her final moments, that she hadn’t let Rue die alone and afraid, the way most tributes died.

As he stared up at the stars, Thresh found himself wishing that someone was here to sing to him, too.


	6. Madge: Stumbling

Her entire world was fire, brilliant flowers of orange and red, blooming in front of her eyes and eating up people and buildings and the rubble that spilled onto the street. People were screaming, swarming, trampling each other as they all ran, desperate to get away from the bombs that were whistling down towards them, eating up their district, their home.

Madge had lost her father in the chaos – she had had no choice but to run, to leave him behind, as the crowd had been huge and violent in their terror and they threatened to sweep her away.

“Papa!” she screamed, and screamed, and screamed, but her voice was lost in the hundreds of other voices, all of them calling for missing loved ones, missing friends. Maybe his voice was in there too, yelling her name as he was swept in the opposite direction.

She stumbled through the square, away from the screams, away from the struggle, away from the people – she stumbled through the town, past the sweet shop, past the apothecary, past Mellark’s Bakery, past her house – and she stumbled all the way to the Victor’s Village, where the houses stood empty and quiet, away from the screaming and the terror and the fire, oh, the fire.

Mrs Everdeen and Prim weren’t in their house, she didn’t think they would have been – the only creature there was their mangy old cat, yowling and hissing at her from the corner of the room.

She heard more bombs falling, heard them tearing apart her home, and the cat – Buttercup? – fled, running upstairs with a terrified howl, scratching the floorboards in his panic to get away, and Madge was left alone in the empty house of the only friend she’d ever had.

She curled up into a little ball, hugging her knees to her chest, and hoped, hoped, hoped that someone would come to rescue her. Her father. Gale. Her mother – “Mama,” Madge whispered, and then she was up and on her feet, slamming the front door closed behind her, and stumbling her way back in the direction she’d come from – her house would still be there, her mother would still be inside – Madge stumbled, and stumbled, and stumbled.

Smoke rose from where the Town Square had once been, and Madge tried not to think of her father, who she’d left behind, who she hadn’t helped – but she could still help her mother. Her mother, with the headaches, her mother, who could barely move, her mother, who she’d almost left behind just like she’d left her father.

“Mama!” she yelled, stumbling through the front door and stumbling through her house, stumbling up the stairs and down the hallway and into her parents’ bedroom where her mother lay, hands pressed to her ears, her cheeks wet with tears. “Mama, it’s okay, I’m here,” she whispered, and her mother turned to her, her eyes as blue as summer skies.

“Madge,” her mother said, and groaned, a horrible, guttural groan. “Hurts, Madge.”

“I know, Mama, I know – come on, we have to go now, Mama, we’re not safe here.” Madge grabbed her mother’s arm and slung it around her shoulders, and her mother stood with a pained cry, leaning all her weight against Madge, and Madge stumbled.

“Too loud,” her mother said, and Madge was half-dragging, half-carrying her.

“I know, Mama, I know, but we have to go now, come on,” Madge said, and they stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hallway and down the stairs, and they had just gotten to the bottom when –

Fire. Madge’s whole world was fire. Beautiful blossoms of red and orange and yellow and white and blue and purple – and Madge was surprised, because she’d never seen purple flames before. But here they were, licking the ground, eating up the polished floorboards and the floral wall-paper and their beautiful old piano and Madge could hear someone screaming and maybe it was her mother but it could have been her, too, she wasn’t sure, and –

Fire. Her whole world was fire.


	7. Brutus: Machine

Brutus knew that he had been born to fight. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight, but what choice did he have, really? His parents were both Victors, and they were the children of Victors. He had been pulled out of school at the age of eight in order to train. He didn’t know how to do anything, except fight – the only thing he knew how to write was his name. He didn’t need to know anything else. He had been raised to fight, and that was what he would do. He would win, or he would die.

So what choice did he have? _None,_ he supposed, and raised his hand to volunteer.

0o0o

The Capitol loved him. He wasn’t sure why. All he did was beat his chest and roar, as so many had done before him. Martina and Nero and Lex had done the same. He was nothing original. He had the same tanned skin and steely blue eyes and muscly build of many others in his district. He had the same vicious personality – at least, he thought he did. Brutus wasn’t exactly sure who he was. _How much of me is really them?_

0o0o

He had never been allowed to cry, as a child. He had always been told to ‘man up’ and ‘stop being such a pussy’ and ‘act like a Victor’. He supposed this was why emotion felt so unnatural to him. He couldn’t help but be disgusted at those who had cried at their interviews. But he began to understand their tears when he had killed his first person. She had been small. Only thirteen. She had had long brown braids and big dark eyes that stared straight into Brutus’ soul as he killed her. He felt as though she had seen who he was – he had seen through all his muscle and his manufactured personality. She had stared through the protective layers Brutus had built around himself, and she saw a scared little boy, who wanted desperately to go somewhere that felt like home. He had stared down at her, into those large bottomless eyes, until she stopped breathing. Her shirt had the number 8 pinned to it. He hadn’t even known her name.

0o0o

He was the leader of the Career pack. Of course he was. His father had been the leader and his mother and both his grandfathers and one of his aunts. His aunt had died, though, and Brutus wasn’t meant to talk about her. He had been seven when she died. His father had made him watch, even though he didn’t want to. She had screamed, long and loud, and her hand had reached out to the camera as if she knew it was there. Brutus thought for a long time that she had seen him watching. He felt as though she had been asking for help. “You’ll never bring shame to this family as she did, will you, son?” his father had asked, his face still and solemn like a statue. Brutus had shaken his head. He wished his aunt was alive.

0o0o

It had come down to Brutus and his district partner. Her name was Daniela, and she had fiery red hair and serious eyes that were the colour of coal. She was small and bad-tempered, and her favourite word was ‘shit’. Her favourite food was apple crumble, and she hit the bullseye with her knives every time. She was eighteen, like him, but she seemed years older and centuries wiser. Brutus liked her very much. He didn’t want to kill her, not at all, but it was what he was supposed to do. He didn’t want his parents to be ashamed of him. He didn’t want them to pretend that they were childless, that they had never had a son who died in the Games. It was better to be childless than to have a child who had died in the Games. He didn’t want to kill Daniela, but he did anyway.

Her last breaths had been rattling, and her blood was warm and dark and sticky and it covered his hands like too-tight gloves.

“I’m sorry,” he had said, so quietly that only she had been able to hear.

She had stared up at him, her red hair spread out on the dewy glass like a cloud. “Make them proud, Brute,” she whispered back.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He didn’t know what else to say. In training, he had never been taught what to say to a dying person. A person who was dying because of him. So Brutus said the only thing that made sense to him. “I’m sorry.”

“Brute. I-“ she said. Then her eyes rolled back in her skull and those horrible rattling breaths stopped. For the rest of his life, Brutus would wonder what she had been going to say.

0o0o

He had thought it would be easy, from that moment onwards. He was a Victor and he had made his family and his district and his country proud. Just like he was supposed to.

“You were so brave,” his mother said when he got home, holding his face in her hands and kissing him once on the forehead. She wasn’t a very affectionate person – she rarely handed out compliments. That moment should have meant mountains to Brutus, but he still felt empty. He didn’t feel brave. How was it brave, being a foot taller and half a metre wider than every single one of his opponents? How was it brave, learning how to fight from birth, when most of the kids in the arena had been hungry and stunted and tired their whole lives? Brutus didn’t think that being born into privilege was brave.

In the months that followed his win, they cheered his name as they marched through the streets. Wherever he went, he had people asking for his autograph. They whispered his name as they walked by. By then, Daniela’s name had been wilfully forgotten. Her parents pretended she had never existed, as his would have done if she had come home. Brutus promised her that he would never forget her name.

 _Am I the only one who remembers her?_ He wondered that sometimes. He didn’t know how to find the answer.

0o0o

He had always done what people told him to do. He had never been allowed to think for himself, after all, so why should he try to change things now that he was a Victor?

They wanted him to roar and snarl and beat his chest. They wanted him to be vicious, they wanted him to be feral, they wanted him to act like an animal. Who was he to be anything but? He had won because they wanted him to. Twenty-three people had died, seven of them at his hand, because he had been told to win. Why should he give up and pretend to be anyone else except the person they all wanted him to be?

 _Who am I?_ Brutus wasn’t even sure who he wanted to be.

0o0o

Enobaria had been one of his tributes. She had reminded him of Daniela, because she was small but full of rage and fight and fire. She hadn’t been like him. She was one of the orphanage kids, sold to the Academy at the age of four and taught how to be a warrior. Like him, she had never known anything else. Unlike him, she wanted to be a warrior.

Brutus knew she would win. He knew that Daniela would have won, if he hadn’t volunteered. Enobaria cut down tributes as though she was a lawn mower, mowing down grass. It was what she had been programmed to do, after all; like him, she would never disobey orders. She was a soldier, after all.

0o0o

He had been wrong about Enobaria. She was a soldier, a warrior, a fighter, yes, but she was also a person. Sometimes Brutus forgot that they were all people, because most of the time he felt like a machine. The Capitol had never liked Enobaria as much as they liked him – they admired her, sure, but even the Capitol knew when something was horrific. She had become horrific in the arena. Maybe she had always been horrific, but Brutus didn’t think so. People weren’t born vicious – they were only taught.

It hadn’t been a surprise when she had been reaped the second time. No-one could control Enobaria, not Brutus or the Academy, or the Capitol. They knew this. They were scared of this, just like Brutus was, but for different reasons.

Brutus volunteered. It was what he was meant to do, after all, and who was he to go against orders?

0o0o

Chaff had got him. He had heard the man from Eleven coming, but a part of Brutus was tired of being a machine, and so he had pretended not to hear Chaff’s heavy footsteps as he snuck up behind. He wanted to be a human, and wasn’t sure how to make up for a whole lifetime of being manufactured. He didn’t know how to be a human, but maybe he could learn, in the brief moments before death.

He had stared up at Chaff, in the moments before he died. For a second, he didn’t see Chaff. For a second, Chaff was the little thirteen-year-old girl Brutus had killed, all those years ago. They had the same eyes, Brutus realised – dark and bottomless, like a deep, empty well. Brutus wondered who Chaff was, and realised, in the second before he died, that Chaff was a human, just like Brutus.

 _I am me,_ Brutus thought. _I am a brute and I am also a human._ He smiled. And then he died.


	8. Calico: Forgotten

It’s all you can do to keep from crying as she makes her way up to the stage. The escort has to call her name once, twice, three times before she moves. Bella Kristoff, says Julius, Bella, Bella, Bella.

She looks so small up there, as smiles down at everyone – and there’s a stir in the crowd as they realise who she is. Bella, the sweet, simple girl, who has the mind of a much younger child. Bella, who doesn’t even know what the Hunger Games are, protected by her parents her whole life.

You don’t think you could live with yourself if you let her go to the Capitol. It would mean certain death for her – and maybe you have a chance, maybe you could make it. You have a better chance than Bella, after all. Your stomach churns and your hand trembles as you raise your hand – and your voice cracks as you say the words.

“I volunteer.”

0o0o

So brave, Julius tells you, pinching your cheeks. So brave.

You don’t feel brave. Tears pour down your cheeks and you tremble like a leaf as you stand there, on the stage, everyone staring up at you. Bella looks at you, confused, and hugs you once around the waist before a Peacekeeper drags her away, crying because she doesn’t know what’s going on.

What’s your name? Julius asks, pushing you in front of the microphone. What’s your name, darling?

“Calico York,” you say, willing yourself not to burst into sobs because you’re going to the Hunger Games, and you’re almost certainly going to die.

0o0o

Why’d you do it, your parents ask when they come to visit. Why’d you do it, Calico?

And you don’t know how to answer, you don’t know how to explain it. Sure, Bella’s your friend, but no one volunteers in Eight. No one, certainly not skinny fourteen-year olds from Factory Town.

So you shrug, and you hug them as they cry.

Why’d you do it?

You don’t know.

0o0o

Cecelia and Bobbie and Woof are even nicer than they seem on television, and for a moment you think it’s worth it, getting to talk to the Victors you have admired for so long. Cecelia tells you all about her baby son, and Bobbie tells you all about Capitol shenanigans. Woof doesn’t say much, but he smiles, and for the second time in your life, you feel seen.

When you see the food, you and your district partner can’t help but smile at each other. It’s better than anything you’ve ever seen, and maybe volunteering wasn’t such a bad idea if you get to have at least a week of good food.

0o0o

You’re not good at anything in training, which isn’t surprising. You can run, but nowhere near as fast as any of the Careers. You can make knots, but they only taught you how to make fabric in Eight, not how to make traps, and your fingers stumble over the twine, so different to what you’re used to. You don’t recognise any plants – Eight is an industrial district, the streets clogged with factory fumes. There’s nowhere for anything to grow, not even the children.

You get a three, and you wonder why you thought you’d ever have a chance.

0o0o

Why’d you do it, Caesar asks. Who is Bella?

“Bella’s my friend. Bella doesn’t deserve to die.”

You don’t know it then, but your words are what gets Cecelia to finally agree to Bobbie and Woof’s pestering, despite her fear. She joins the rebellion that same night, while you’re lying awake in bed, dreading what the morning will bring.

0o0o

You don’t make it far. Your plan was to run in the opposite direction of the Bloodbath, but there was a backpack so close, only a few metres off the pedestal. You thought you could reach it, and certainly risking a few moments to get a backpack is better than running off into the arena, with no skills and no tools to help you survive. And the arena is daunting, the most horrifying one you’ve seen yet, with its ruined, smoking buildings and zombie mutts wandering around in the distance. Maybe you only think it’s so terrible because this time, you’re not watching. This time, you’re a part of it.

So you run. You grab the backpack, and you turn around, and you’ve almost made it out when the girl from One appears, sneaking up behind you. 

Poor little lamb, she says. She almost seems sympathetic. You die quickly, a knife between your eyes. You’re glad it was quick. You knew you wouldn’t win anyway.

0o0o

The girl from One wins that year, against all odds – the rest of the Careers turned against her within days, not trusting her, because her twin brother won the year before. She was stealing all the sponsors, they say, but it doesn’t matter what the reason is. They die anyway.

Cashmere smiles, and tosses her long blonde hair over her shoulder as she marches onto the stage, and you’ve almost been forgotten already.

0o0o

They forget you quickly, and what you did. Just another dead girl from Eight, you are. Just another poor, foolish dead girl.

Bella Kristoff is reaped again two years later. This time, no one volunteers.


End file.
